Stressful days
by scarletwingdeathweapon
Summary: I'm using my OC Scarlet, who is a weapon, into the DWMA because I can! This is my first story so I'd love comments even if it's telling me what you think is wrong with it. I will NOT be putting my OC in a relationship with a copy written character, (unless it's I'll take suggestions so feel free to give It'll be T for now, but I will do what you guys want
1. Chapter 1

Day 1

Wheels grind to a halt as the moving truck behind me pulls into the driveway. I observe my new surroundings. A pink apartment building with cream trim and a white door. _Yup, that's what you should expect when you move to Death City_. Houses painted nonsensical colors, spattered at random throughout the neighborhood. I roll my eyes as I look further down the street to see bright green, blue, and even purple mixed in with some more natural house colors.

"Scarlet!" Yells my mother, snapping me from my internal criticism of the city, "Come help unload our furniture."

I inwardly groan. There is so much junk packed into the truck and our car that the neatly trimmed grass I was presently standing on would grow an inch before we were done. Even though I'd rather go run around the perimeter of the city, I grudgingly walk over to where my parents are dragging random stuff onto the lawn which now looked like a dump, when only a few seconds ago it had looked freshly attended to.

"Is it okay if I take my own stuff and pick a bedroom first?" I ask hopefully. _If I can waste time setting my own stuff up in my room then maybe I won't have to help my parents as much._

The best part about being an only child is being able to have first and only pick of everything. Walking through a new house is like walking through uncharted territory; every creak in the floorboards makes you jump and your excitement builds with each new door you open to reveal an empty, but seemingly exotic, room.

The first bedroom has a slanted ceiling, giving it the effect of only being a half-room. It only has a skylight halfway up the slanted side on the left. Deciding it's not the room for me, I walk out.

The second room is spacy, with light blue walls and a mural of a sailboat on a wild seascape, smack-dab in the middle of the wall to my right. I look at the tiny little seagulls, delicately painted, seemingly dancing along the edges of the painting. As my eyes drink in every detail of each cloud or wave, I shiver as a feeling of deja vu washes over me like the water in the mural. Suddenly, a rushing fills my ears and I can't breathe, as though a pillow were being pressed against my mouth and nose.


	2. Chapter 2

It's ten p.m. The night before I'm supposed to go to the DWMA. I lay in my bed, pondering whether or not I should be worried about making friends or not. I've always gotten along relatively well with new people, but I've also made my fair share of enemies over the years. Stuffing my head into my slightly lumpy pillow, I sigh. Realizing that not getting enough sleep would be a bad thing to do, I shut my eyes and let dreams fly me away.

…

I'm not a morning person. Never have been, never will be. Waking me up in the morning is like disturbing a fire-breathing dragon from it's five year slumber. When my alarm clock goes off at 5:45 a.m, I just about smash the heck out of it, but realizing I'd then have to buy a new one, I reset the timer and drag myself out of bed. Walking with heavy steps into the bathroom connected to my room, I stare at myself in the mirror.

I have brown hair that drops to my shoulders, curling where it hits, and with freckles spattered along the bridge of my nose and even on my cheeks. I have a slight streak of pink on the right part of my long grown-out bangs where I used to dye it, but decided it took too much time.

_Whoops almost forgot to dress! _I think to myself before finding my way over to the giant suitcase that now held my mound of clothes. If this had been my house for longer they would have been strewn half hazardly all over the room.

I'm picky with my outfits. Only girly-fit, v-neck t shirts are for me. I pick out a blue one that is slightly see-through (it's dark enough that I don't care) and place a gray sweatshirt with a golden wings design on the back over it. For pants I just throw on one of my multiple pairs of skinny jeans before walking over to asses myself in the mirror.

I've never been called ugly by anyone, but I highly doubt I'm something to look at either. I think of myself as a happy medium. When my outfit passes my test, I slather some foundation over the dark circles under my eyes and brush on a tiny bit of mascara. This is about all I ever put on, aside from some eye shadow every once and awhile.

Shuffling zombie-like downstairs I open one of the kitchen cabinets and grab one of the old boxes of lucky charms that had made the trip all the way from Maine to Nevada with us. Spilling the rainbow pieces of cereal into a large bowl I gobble them down.

…

My parents aren't awake when I leave. Who would blame them, school mornings were always uneventful, even though this one was different. I was finally going to a school that would let me hone my abilities as a weapon.

I hadn't always known I was a weapon. We found out that little side-fact when I

was ten and my cousin pissed me off by spilling soda all over my special dress. Before I knew it, my arm morphed into a flail mace like some medieval time fairy tail and I just about took my cousin's head off. After a little bit of research, I was able to find this school, where weapons like me could learn about themselves. Now here I was leaving on my first day and I was freaking nervous.

…

The school is only a few blocks away so I easily walk there. I can see kids flooding up the stairs. Blue, Red, and even Purple shocks of hair mix among the sea of people heading through the giant doors of the shockingly huge school. This doesn't prepare me for looking at the piece of architecture towering up into the sky above me. Skulls, candles, and red spikes just out from the side of a building that doesn't seem to have any particular shape to it. Smiling, I adjust my heavy plaid-patterned backpack higher up onto my shoulder and step forward to walk up the stairs. My eyes study every grain of marble as I marvel at the perfection that is this building.

Suddenly, my toe catches and I'm falling face-first into the cold, unforgiving white stone, letting out a small squeak in the process. I save myself major damage by throwing my hands in front of me, but by doing so leave the weight of my backpack to crush me into the ground. I lay there, undignified, and on the verge of tears when someone's hand appears in front of my face, beckoning me to take it.


End file.
